by Brett Davidson
The sky itself was dying. There was one less star
to be counted, and thus the call came to strive
ever harder against our opponents. Our legion, Abiding,
ranked facing the eternal wind and before the
unmoving Sun. We cast our shadows before like
spears.
And before us, the end of the latest tide of
organised opposition to our dominion. The enemy
called themselves “the people”, or at least that
is what the word they used for themselves meant to
them. To us, it was as it always was: outsider,
threat, enemy, not-yet-vanquished.
They had established a peculiar symbiosis with
their chattel animals, I had heard, and now I saw
them mounted on these beasts first hand for the
last time. They were odd creatures, strangely
distorted and yet also strangely elegant
variations of the human prototype. Like true
people, they had four limbs arranged in pairs at
either ends of compact torsos, heads bearing ears
and eyes of intelligent intensity atop
streaming-maned necks. Strangely, they ran not on
feet, but four sturdy-nailed fingers. The name
they gave them, I believe, was “horse.”
I must admit that individually, a horse was a
beautiful thing, and with a rider upon its back,
the pairing was in no way grotesque. It was,
indeed, bold, and in action their synthesis was
both powerful and elegant.
Militarily, however, they could be no match to
our own powered frames that had no mediating
intelligence to guess and mistake our intentions.
I raised my arm in a preparatory signal, and
reading directly the impulses of my nerves, my
frame amplified the gesture as naturally as my own
flesh.
In instants such as this, the greater the
tension, the longer time is attenuated, but it
ended and we charged and they charged and we came
to the clash. There was no time for contemplation,
but now, after, I have time and so I do insert a
moment that traverses many years.
You do not know my name; one way or the other it
has been erased – by time or more deliberate
censorship. Allow me then to introduce myself: as
you see, in that artificially stalled moment with
my arm raised, I am at the head of a great legion;
my rank is Agetor; my clan, Indikos; my city is no
city but the one Great House of the Twilit Land –
and my name, that is Chryseo Drakonhaema
Phylindikos.
Perhaps you have heard of me; as recollections of
the aged under the Lights, in curses or whispers
in the halls of the Great House. Perhaps there has
been another Adjustment in that place and I am
rehabilitated, my deeper loyalty seen for what it
is or was.
Returning to the field under the halted Sun, we
are outside that moment of anticipation and well
into the act. The nails of the horses pound the
earth as if it were a drum and raise a cloud of
dust that rises above the army like an array of
banners. We hear the riders howl.
We ourselves are silent, disciplined, sharpened
and buffered by synthetic hormones and enzymes in
our blood. My earpieces relay a theme designed to
manage my heartbeat at the optimal tempo and a
melody to keep my moves in step with the order of
our tactics. Every step is efficient and accurate
and I feel something akin to rapture as I perform
my bloody dance. Looking from above, as indeed our
recording instruments do, you might see something
like a reaction between two volatile fluids.
Theirs is effervescent, unstable, surging like a
wave, thick foam of anger breaking at its lead.
Now look at us: something like oil in our smooth
density, something like smoke the way we coil and
eddy. A red mist rises from the reaction.
There is of course something artificial about
this battle. We have at our disposal flying
machines of many kinds, a mere few of which could
butcher our opponents safely from heights they
could never reach. Likewise one Kastchei-class
manshonyagger could wade through them and quickly
dispatch the lot with dispassionate precision.
That though would not serve our longer purpose; if
we stood too far above them, then they could
convince themselves that they fought demons and
that rightly then they should continue as the
struggles against demons is proper to
being-in-action. That could not be permitted. They
had to see our faces and know that they were
defeated by true men and thus we showed our faces
and our hands to them, even enframed in metal.
And of course we saw their faces and refused to
notice that we could not see any difference from
ourselves in them.
The horses, though… They were different, and
aroused in me peculiar emotions. Their long, bony
and soft-lipped faces could not be read as
naturally as a person’s, but I saw in their wide
eyes, in the specks of foam flying from the bits
of their bridles real rage and real terror. The
reactions of lesser beasts and mechanical devices
are only reactions, no more, but an intelligent
creature could and must have such emotions, for
they are engendered by knowledge of pain and
mortality and love and loyalty.
It was not right to erase from this already
famished world such beauty, but sentiment was cast
as a weakness in the Great House and there could
therefore be no riders, no horses ever again. If
we admired them, then it was because they were
powerful, and if they were powerful they were a
threat. I knew a little of their diet and
requirements; they were creatures of open plains
and the Great House could not contain them. They
could only remain outside and that was intolerable
to our masters. I think perhaps that jealousy was
hidden in their motives.
And as for myself, perhaps I could not bear to
see such a thing corrupted either by enslavement
by the abhumans I knew would master the Valley in
the end and neither could I bear to see them
constrained in the black metal halls of the House.
I did not think too long on that last point.
Sentiment, I said, is a weakness, and worse than
that, it is hypocrisy. I would not permit myself
to weep as they died, as I killed them.
-------
Within a septaphase, we were back within the
environs of the Great House again. It was a great
five-pointed plateau of black metal a league high
and twice as broad, set within an aureole of
labyrinthine earthworks. Seemingly inviolable, it
was as regular and perfect as a machine, a huge
calculating mill, counting time, measuring and
slicing the years… and lives. And I served that
apparatus, I was part of it, interlinked with all
my comrades and all our machines. An imperfect
part.
I did not fit; none of us did. It was making us
fit, shaping us as it shaped its plans, and I did
not wish that.
As was customary, a manshonyagger dropped from
the arch of the gate and bobbed in a challenge to
us.
“Hail, I am Kastchei Three. Identify!” it
demanded. “Certify readiness for contagion test,
certify readiness for decontamination!” As we had
so often before, we offered our striated badges to
the sweeping lasers and five faces of the machine
and so were admitted. It saw what it desired to
see, what we desired it to see - but that was not
all that there was to see. Seditiously hidden
behind the conventional crest of my division on my
silver gorget, there was a cameo gem carved with
an emblem of Astrarchê Io. When I was sure of my
privacy, I would take it out and look at it,
wondering. The gem had been a gift from my father
and I did not entirely understand it. The
paradoxically slight figure depicted there
radiated strength and power as she held upright
the strange disc-shaped weapon that legend said
had been given to her by two mysterious
travellers, one in wine-rich purple and the other
in grey shot with fire, as a tangible proof of the
greater civilisation to come. Surrounding her,
like a mechanical halo, there was one of the
ancient sky-castles, I knew; indeed, our own Great
House mimicked in static form some of the aspects
of its design. Under her feet, completing the
picture, things like crinoids and dark lightning
cringed and withered.
Like all legends, hers was filled with details
like the sky-castle and the colours of the
travellers’ garments that gave its essentially
fantastic substance the form of a true account.
The twinges of dread inspired by the very
illegality of the icon and my love for it
doubtlessly supported each other, producing a
rich, sinfully virtuous flush of devotion in me.
When the manshonyagger squatted before us and
scanned our tags with fans of ruby light, I smiled
a smile its own algorithms would only be able to
interpret as conventional arrogance. It would not
see the spite I hid in plain sight there, and when
it let us pass, I smiled all the more – but then
my glee dissolved into a broth of more complex
feelings.
Within the mighty walls once more, I looked up
and saw the great piers encircled with the
climbing modular spirals of the clan domiciles,
all ordered according to the meaning of their
badges in the vast mnemonic system that ordered
our society. Proper, it was said, not
proper I whispered to myself, because hung
between those piers, I saw also the hanging
catenoids of the weblines the smaller Mantis-class
manshonyaggers wove so that they might peer within
every window and examine those they thought
nonconforming. Those machines made excellent
guards. Too excellent perhaps in their
inscrutability. We had not made them – that had
been done by our ancestors aeons before – but we
had adopted them or they had adopted us upon the
Foundation of the House. Who though could have
said that he truly knew the manshonyaggers? We
used them because it was convenient to do so – and
because we could not kill them. But what was their
gain in this arrangement, what was their interest?
We knew that they had been made aeons ago with the
simple commandment embedded in their minds to
protect true humanity, but so fine and diverse
were the definitions in the Twilit Land, could we
be sure that they would not decide one day that we
had drifted too far from their programmed ideal
and then turn upon us?
Who knew indeed…
After quarantine and decontamination in both
ritual and mundane forms and the preliminary
deposition of our reports, we were released before
the final collation and enquiry to return to the
care of our families. It had been too long, as
ever, and I walked with an unseemly haste from the
barbican complex to the dormitory stacks.
As I passed through one of the major circulation
nodes I came as ever upon one of the great
multiply-faced clocks that stand at each major
intersection and which in miniature regulates
every household. As ever it lied, because its
faces were circular. Time, we know, most assuredly
does not move in circles, though scholars tell us
that this is what the ancients believed when the
earth itself turned and produced fruits in cycles
and before the catastrophe occurred. Now the
Darkening is upon us and the Sun stands still in
the West and the only proper shape for a dial
would have to be some other geometry – perhaps a
series of bars of escalating magnitudes so that as
each one declined to zero, the one adjacent
reduced by one increment and so on.
The masters of this House do not like to see
pessimism made so manifest, however, so they
continue to lie to us with circles that turn and
turn and turn.
My beloved Argyra, named Argyra Akmehaema
Philindikos and mother to our twin daughters
Aletheia and Schea waited for me and as ever, and
as ever, we saluted the shade of my father,
Drakon, at the ancestral shrine, giving thanks for
my victor that was so much in imitation of his own
triumphs, as ever we went to the bedchamber…
As ever, as ever. The things that repeated in the
manners of our community were tyrannical, the
things that repeated by my hearth were the
reflections of a sturdy love that would endure all
tyranny.
We embraced, my uniform unfastened fell in parts
as we staggered to our bed, and there we renewed
the eternal ecstasy that strips our souls naked of
its cloak of words as desire does our bodies. I
forgot the risk, I forgot the fear and bravado and
the hidden desire I might have to be found out so
that I might shout my defiance to all who I
blamed. I forgot time itself.
You must understand this: passion in youth is the
sign of imagined desire and uncomprehended
potential. In maturity, in love, it is proof of
everything.
As I penetrated her and began the pulsing flow
that led with delicious inevitability towards the
consummation of this most intimate of sagas, I
thought of the horses, of the galloping flow of
beast and master charging in massed formation
across the plain. There was, I realised, no such
division; both determined the gait of the one
beast that was made of two. I was not her master
nor she my rider; we are as we act and we acted as
one.
I slept contentedly that cycle, until the clocks
decreed a new phase and the call came for the
presentation of the final report on the late
battle before the Central Assembly of the
Heliomancers.
-------
The preparation of a post-expeditionary report
was always a complicated and tedious process,
requiring several cycles of processing through a
licensed analytical mill to wring out the
appropriate statistical data from the annotations
to my narrative log and reconcile that with the
data from the flying kybergnostic recorders. I
always disliked this task and could never
emotionally connect what I wrote with what I had
experienced. Nonetheless, I was always diligent
about the details because I knew that the masters
of the Great House planned for the long term and
depended on accurate knowledge of trends as much
as they did on dramatic novelties. Not everything
declined with the Sun; some of our potential
enemies flourished in shadows. As the strategists
in the College of Actuarial Arts said, “If it
lives, it may thrive; if it thrives, it will be a
rival; if it is a rival, it is our enemy.” That
equation might describe and armed horde, the
lowliest weeds and land corals or something so
vast and slow as to be invisible to us and only
perceived in the longest, most detailed records –
hence our meticulous measurement and
record-keeping.
When the report was complete at last, I made my
way to the offices of the Keep Annexe. The
seneschal there was a new fellow, his predecessor
having been relieved due to some unmentioned
indiscretion. I had always found that man
agreeable, but whatever my feelings, I did not
dare to call attention to myself by enquiring as
to his exact sin. The new man was a much cooler
individual, and that in a sense made my own
privacy easier as I had no obligation to initiate
conversation with him.
The council itself had succeeded in emulation an
analytical mill, placing itself above the merely
personal in their aim to discern the purely
objective. Each was masked and their bodies were
hidden under bulky cloth of gold robes, all the
better to suppress the assumption of bias and
favour. They were even selected for their
positions through an elaborate system of double
blinds and never met out of costume so that no one
of them knew or could recognise another. One I
knew to be the Archagetor of the Legions, but even
he I had never seen unmasked. It was even possible
that one was a member of my own family – not that
I would ever know.
One other of them was the Prime Adjustor and I
was glad that his face and location were unknown
to me because I could never allow to be seen the
fact that I had reason to fear him.
Elevated as the Assembly was on a tall dais, as
individuals they were dwarfed beneath the Grand
Analytical Mills that loomed still higher. Waves
of movement passed along their cam stacks, making
them appear as if there was an endless trickle of
fluid metal running both up and down their flanks.
So finely engineered were they that the grinding
of lesser instruments was absent and they emitted
little more than a soothing purr.
The individual members of the Assembly did not
speak to me, nor even to each other. Instead each
presented questions and orders through a keyboard
that drove the pipes and valves of an enamelled
brass head that was mounted on a podium before
them. It was to this effigy that I in turn
answered, politely maintaining the pretence that I
could not even see the shrouded figures
manipulating it.
I was always nervous under such examination;
while I may have some dubious skill in words, I am
sure that my ability with numbers is extremely
limited and I was certain that some flaw in my
handling of the mill had let in some greater
error.
Perhaps it was my general guilt over my concealed
heresy seeking some outlet. Perhaps also I was
simply a patriot, caring for my people. However
much I might lack the faith of the worshippers of
the dying god, I could not look at my family, my
clan and my comrades with a similar lack of
sympathy. Their safety and that of all their
descendents depended in part at least on my
accuracy.
In any case, the Brass Head expressed no doubt,
instructing me in its wheezing but musical voice
to return to confirm the readiness of my legion
and receive my brief for the next expedition in
two dekaphae.
It was then that the expedition was officially at
an end and I was released at last to return to my
family without interruption.
You must understand that I did not hate the
Assembly. They were good men, they meant well with
a desperation and bravery that did credit and made
example for us all. The Sun was dying, as they
knew, and the abhumans who had adapted too well to
the dimmed and corrupted Twilit Land gained on us
each year. Looking into their eyes I was tempted
every time to declare my hidden allegiance.
But of course I never did.
-------
My meeting with the Ariphrôn, the Master
Monstruwacan, was partly constitutional and partly
personal. Over my kilophae as an Agetor I was
required to negotiate the delicate intermeshing
gears and balances of the Great House’s governing
system, but my mandated consultations with the man
had quickly become a matter of friendship and
then, in what I think was a fine way, he had
corrupted me.
I had been impressionable when I first met him, a
young man lately promoted and enchanted by
illustrations of Astrarchê Io. There she was in
his books, the empurpled Queen of Stars with her
red hair like a banner in the light of the Sun,
under the tenscore red stars of the darkened sky,
whirling her electric fire-rimmed diskos about and
leading us on into the promised True History of
the World. She was long dead of course, her body
buried under a gilded obelisk at the Uttermost
Precipice before the Gate of the Road of the Great
Descent. Why should I care for mere dust now?
Legend said that she was to reborn again and again
when the times demanded as an eternal champion
and… then I found Argyra – but the old
Monstruwacan’s teachings remained with me.
Istôr, a senior candidate of the Monstruwacan
order and Ariphrôn’s staff of age, met me at the
door and conducted me to the Master’s study where
I found him dressed formally in purple and relaxed
informally in his favourite chair. A samovar
steamed on a table beside him and he indicated
that I should serve myself. I did and sat down
facing him; my filecase was unopened and he seemed
not to be interested in it.
We had little to discuss regarding my recent
expedition, other than to shake our heads
sorrowfully over the probable extinction of the
horses. In the long run, and there could only be
the long run in our regard, extinction was
inevitable and in fact we must ensure as many more
as possible once a threat to the survival of true
humanity is identified. The horses were useless to
us, but a benefit to those who might challenge us
for mastery of the Land and thus their
extermination was necessary – but, oh, they had
been beautiful!
“There are worse things you will face soon,” he
warned, intimating the following topic of
conversation.
“I will, gladly,” I replied, misunderstanding
him. “I will be happy to destroy unambiguously
evil things.”
He leaned forward. “Will you? Will they be
unambiguous?”
“I would wish that they were,” I hedged.
“Ah.” He smiled. Another lesson had been
delivered. He left it to me to consider the
implications of both the questions and my
answer.
He was silent for a while before he prodded me
again. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “did you notice
anything unusual about the Land on your
expedition?”
My answer was wry, as I knew that he was laying
another trap for me. “I noticed many unusual
things about the Land both before and after the
battle, but most related to that event and tended
to absorb all of my attention. A few extra
oddities, including the one that was most
significant unfortunately escaped my notice.”
He gave a quirked smile and sighed. “Of course.
Well then, of course you missed the most important
novelty, or the lesser of the two.”
“Two? Is one the missing star?”
“The extinguished star, the omen that made
a demonstration of our vitality imperative
is one, yes. There is also another, one that is
also rather ironic: another light has been lit.”
Another light. That could only mean one thing.
Far in the northeast there is a realm called the
Black Hills on account of their dark basaltic
composition. It is dangerous and only
schematically explored, being prone to frequent
volcanic eruptions and floods of lava. The land
there is too fresh and changeable for any of our
maps to have currency. That in itself is
disturbing, but beyond the Black Hills there is
something we dread all the more because of what
may cross the Hills when at last they cool.
Standing over them, clearly visible to a good eye
and a spyglass there is a coronet of eight pale
lights. We do not know what lit them or lives
under them and do not want to know – but it is
imperative that we must. Periodically an aerial
reconnaissance is sent, but none have ever
returned and pressure had been growing in recent
kilophae to send a surface expedition. Now that
the Eight Lights were Nine Lights, that expedition
was guaranteed.
As an Expediter, I felt an instinctive thrill at
the prospect of adventure and glory – and of
course, dread too, if not for my own life but for
the bereavement of my family should I die.
Ariphrôn had no living family, but he had his own
mixture of feelings. “One star less; one light
more,” he murmured, partly to himself. “I hardly
know which is the more significant and fear most
neither, but our reaction to these events.”
I cocked my head at this. He looked me in the
eye. His stare was hard, without any of the gentle
humour that had been there only moments ago. “You
know of the historic tensions between the Gold and
the Purple, the conflicting creeds of the dying
red sun and the unseen green. You know perhaps too
well of them as your background because they are
your background and distant at that when you are
at your best – Out in the Twilit Land. I cannot
leave this House, I see these coiled springs
winding themselves ever tighter and I know that a
clock overwound will break. That point is near
now. The Heliomancers and the Monstruwacans both
know it and an event as momentous as this could be
the prime instigation.” Under the constitutional
arrangement of the Great House, it was the
Heliomancers to whom I gave my oath and from whom
I took my orders. In the event of such a crisis as
he implied, Ariphrôn would be my enemy, and not at
all unambiguously evil. “There will be an
Adjustment,” he whispered. “Soon. Be prepared.” We
said no more of consequence. As Istôr ushered me
out, I noticed that I had my filecase under my
arm, still unopened.
© Brett Davidson 10 Oct 2013
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